Feed the Wolves

Tonight, my heartsore sister, we must remember to feed the wolves. Bitter and sick of starvation, they will hunt us like the earth ravaged its reckless. Un-name your rabbits. Thank them for comfort in the bleak and fortune of their swift feet. Each night endured requires sacrifice—this is yours. We, the restless, must learn to release ourselves from solace. Turbulence will haunt you long after day breaks. I will be here to soothe the pain.

Before we begin our exodus from this wasteland, we will dine on the remnants of our father’s hope. We should mill flour like he taught us last spring before the freezing of the sky. Do you remember the vacancy in his eyes, that last exhausted sigh? We must preserve him in our memory—the sole allowance of sentimentalists in a wilting world. At twilight, I’ll describe the days you can’t imagine because you were too small.

When we escape the ruin of our family’s home, I’ll leave a trail for the next damned souls. We were once guided by the light of a stranger in the scarcity. We must pay it forward. But first, help me scour the cupboards for dregs of oil or grease—one tablespoon at least for tender slices. Do you remember sunshine? Tonight, we will burn splintered floor boards to stay warm and cook on the fire like the way of our ancestors—no longer a simple pleasure but our only means to survive.

Follow closely as we skirt the border between salvation and grief. I will climb the old plum tree, sort through the withered and rotting to find some sweetness for our final feast. You should understand the difference between struggle and suffering. One has an end, a promotion from defeat. The other doesn’t. It is my responsibility, saccharine sister, that you never suffer but always strive through the struggle of this feral life.

Fill the tin with snow. We will melt it on the embers—water for cake batter and the journey south. When I let the rabbits go, carve their names into the wall—a sigil of their gall and bravery. One day, you will learn to dream about the future instead of the past. Tonight, if you can’t sleep, think of the birds and their careless melody before disfigured feathers fell. I will try to quell your fear of darkness. On the other side of the barren, you can be a child again.

Chloe, never forget your name. You don’t need it today, but you will when the world finds itself and you become more than a survivor. Before we leave, help me conjure the batter—a pastiche of fragments, desperate to be whole in any way that matters. Mash the plums, sift the flour, stir in the oil, and boil the water. The day after our father died, I rummaged through his pockets and found a bar of coal dark chocolate. You’ve never known the taste, but I saved it for this occasion. Even in the outlands, birthdays matter.

Tonight, my rosy sister, the wolves will howl in the distance. They will ravage and shriek, eventually leaving us in stark silence. While we wait out the storm, pour in the melted chocolate—a swirl like our galaxy once looked in the starlit heavens. After the cake rises, we must let it cool like the apple cider we stewed at the beginning of this endless winter. For the first time, I’ll show you how to use the knife. Be careful when you cut the slices. We should eat before we sleep and wake. In the morning, when the wolves are satiated, we will journey toward the sunshine on the horizon.